The War of the Ember (15 page)

Soren watched as Coryn, who a minute before had been at his side, suddenly veered off.
What is he doing?
Soren wondered in alarm as he saw Coryn make a wild dash to the crater’s edge. He was waving the ember,
beckoning to Nyra. The rims of craters were notoriously dangerous. She-winds could erupt violently around them as cool air collided with the volcano’s heat to create lethal shears and downdrafts. Was Coryn going to fight his mother at the crater’s edge in the maelstrom of a she-wind? Soren saw Nyra fly directly toward Coryn. The young king was alone now. Twilight had flown off to another skirmish, where his two brothers were outnumbered. Coryn had no one to fight alongside him. Soren had no choice. He hurled himself toward Coryn in the wake of Nyra. If he could only catch up with the vile owl and finish her off! But she’d already reached the rim. He saw Coryn parry and then dive into a gap in the flames of the volcano. Soren blinked. It was an insanely perilous maneuver that Coryn had just executed. But it allowed Soren to slide into a flanking position close to his nephew’s starboard wing.

“You shouldn’t be here, Uncle.”

“I can think of no better place than at your side.” Before they knew it, Nyra had flown into the same space. They began circling one another. It was two against one. Still, it was difficult. The winds were strong, tumultuous. Blessedly, the she-winds had not started to blow. The volcano itself, however, was in a phase of active eruption. Sheets of flames rose like dancing curtains, a
labyrinth of fire. And Coryn was leading Nyra deeper and deeper into the maze. Soren was gripped with a fear he had never known, even as a collier diving into forest fires. These flames were different. But he thought,
We are colliers, Coryn and I. Nyra is not! We can do this!
Deeper and deeper they flew into the very heart of the eruption, skimming the boiling red-black sea of the crater. Not only did they have to dodge flames but crashing waves of molten lava.
Why in the name of Glaux has Coryn lured Nyra to this location?
Then it suddenly dawned on Soren.
He thinks no enemy troops will follow.

They arrived at a clear space where the tunnels of flames opened. And just at that same moment, there was a smear of blue. The Striga! The blue owl appeared suddenly through a gap in the wall of flames. He flew to Nyra’s side. Nyra swelled in his presence. Soren saw her eyes brighten.
Great Glaux!
Yellow poured from her eyes for a second time during this long battle. Could she control it or did it happen without her willing it?

At that moment, Coryn flew toward both the owls, then went into a hover a short distance from his mortal enemies, his mother and the Striga. Soren felt his gizzard lock. Was he snagged in the fyngrot? He saw his nephew slowly extend his talon with the ember almost like an offering as he dipped down in obeisance. The
she-winds started to blow and, like maverick tendrils shorn from the main body of the wind, gusts began to seep through the fissures between the flames, disturbing the already confusing air currents. In another two seconds, it would be nearly impossible to fly. Coryn knew he had to act now. He moved in on the two owls.

Tucked under his port wing, Soren carried an ice splinter. He watched carefully, hoping that Coryn could maneuver the owls so he could get a clear shot at either Nyra or the Striga. Suddenly, Soren realized that the ember Coryn held out was a counterfeit, and that the Striga and Nyra did not know this. They were transfixed by the ember. Nyra came closer and closer.
If she will only turn just a bit,
Soren thought,
I will have a clear shot at her.

“At last, an obedient son,” Nyra hissed as she flew closer, extending her own fire-clawed talon. And just as she took the ember, to draw her attention Soren shouted, “It’s fake!” Her eyes opened in horror as she turned toward him, her chest exposed.
Now or never!
Soren launched the ice splinter directly at her chest. There was a small spurt of blood, then a gush. The splinter had buried itself deep in her heart. She looked again in horror, first at Soren and then Coryn. For a moment she
seemed suspended between two columns of flames, and then she said, “You cheated me, your own mother.”

“You dare call yourself my mother?” Coryn said evenly.

Nyra lurched forward. Soren thought he saw Coryn flinch.

The Striga rushed in and swept under Nyra. He was trying to support her from below. But suddenly, the she-winds were raking through the flames and the scalding waves from the lava sea were rising higher. In the next moment a crest of the lava sea broke and took her with it. The Striga had slid away in the nick of time. “Out of here! Coryn!” Soren cried. “We have to get out. The she-winds are building!”

“Follow him!” Coryn cried out. “Follow the Striga!”

“Let him go, Coryn! Let him go!”

“Never!” Coryn shouted. He was flying like an owl possessed. Soren would not let him give chase alone. But suddenly the air was clear. They were out from the hot fiery breath of the volcano and the tumult of the she-winds and yet…
My Glaux, I am flying through blood!
Soren thought.
Blood! How can this be?

And then he saw it! The blood was streaming from Coryn’s port wing. The wing hung at an odd angle. His
flight was unbalanced. The Striga wheeled about and was advancing on Coryn.

“No!” screeched Soren. He roared in and, with the ancient battle claws of Ezylryb extended, raked off the head of the Striga. The blue head spun off in one direction, the body in another. But there was something else. The tawny bloodstained wing of a Barn Owl swirled almost lazily to the ground. “Coryn! Coryn!” Soren watched, his gizzard quaking as Coryn plummeted. Soren flew to him and, with his battle claws still extended, caught his nephew and cradled him in those claws as if he were a chick just out of the shell.

A strange stillness settled upon the battlefield. Had the fighting stopped? Soren did not know, did not care. He landed at the base of the volcano and laid Coryn gently among the embers. Suddenly, the Band was by his side. “He’s hurt! Badly hurt!” Soren cried out.

“Uncle, I am dying.”

“No!” Soren whispered.

Otulissa appeared with the torn-off wing. “No, Coryn! No!” She could not believe this was happening. Above the place where Coryn now lay, Otulissa had years before perched on an outcropping and watched in astonishment as young Coryn had retrieved the ember.

“Coryn,” Otulissa said softly, “Cleve will come. He will mend you. Sew your wing back on.”

“I am fine. I don’t need wings where I am going.”

He was so tired. Coryn looked up at the good noble owls gathered around him. The band, the Chaw of Chaws. They were all weeping, begging him to live. But he knew he was leaving them.
They will have years and years, but my time is here.
He was ready. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was not the voices of the Band but the howling of the wolves. And yet they seemed not near but in some distant country.

Don’t worry,
he wanted to say.
Don’t worry, Uncle.
But he felt as if he was already far away.

A messenger arrived. “The enemy has been routed, sir.” Then he looked down and gasped. “The king?”

“The king is dead!” said Soren quietly.

Soren flew over and perched on the top of one of the great gates of the Beyond. He swiveled his head and surveyed the battlefield.
It’s a miracle,
he thought softly.
We were but five hundred Guardians and yet creatures from all over joined us. Creatures who had never before fought together found a way.
He saw Doc Finebeak in the distance. He was tending to the birds in his Black and White Brigade.
Crows! Who would have ever thought we would have crows as
allies? And seagulls?
His eyes scanned the splatterings of white gull poop that seemed everywhere. But how effective that flying splat had been in the final rout.
Perhaps they have less than noble digestive tracts but their gizzards proved true,
Soren thought.

Suddenly, there was a huge roar and the ground shook beneath them. The five volcanoes of the Sacred Ring began to erupt all at once. The wolves howled a warning for, although such occasions were rare, fire could sweep across the land and the sky would then become a sea of flames. Owls began to fly through the Hot Gates but Soren stayed perched. He knew in his gizzard that he must remain. And so apparently did the rest of the Band and Otulissa. When he looked about, the entire Chaw of Chaws was perched on the pinnacles of the Hot Gates. And as they watched, they saw a misty configuration that seemed improbable in the hot dry air begin to rise over the crater of Hrath’ghar.

“Look, it’s growing brighter!” Otulissa said.

“Like stars almost,” Gylfie whispered.

“Not
like
stars, they
are
stars!” Twilight said.

Soren could scarcely breath. “It’s a new constellation, I think.”

“It’s a face—a Barn Owl’s face. I swear it’s Coryn’s, but there is no scar,” Digger said.

“No, of course not,” Soren said. “He has been restored, just as the wolves of the Watch are mended when the ember is retrieved. So Coryn is mended in glaumora.”

The din of the erupting volcanoes now quieted. The flames that had scratched the sky retreated. The she-winds stilled and the only sound to be heard now was the bubbling, crackling noises of the boiling lava in the five craters and the rising cries of the wolves.

“Soren,” Gylfie said. “Soren, look around.” She nodded her head toward the ring of volcanoes. Upon each cairn a wolf stood and stretched its long neck toward the sky and began to howl.

“The ember is back,” he replied. “They mourn for their lost king and their lost lives.”

“No, Soren. They are not so selfish as to mourn for themselves. They could have left the Watch during Coryn’s reign. But listen to their song. It’s not sad.” The voices of the wolves grew louder. The wild, untamed song curled into the night. Namara trotted up to Soren. “It is the Song of the Monarch.”

“Monarch? But the king is dead.”

“There will be a new king, unembered but Glaux blessed.”

“No!” Soren gasped.

“Yes,” three voices said. He turned and looked at Gylfie, Twilight, and Digger perched before him.

“Now it is your time,” Digger said. Twilight and Gylfie nodded. Another voice spoke. “Your time, Soren.” It was Otulissa. Namara had fallen to her knees, her belly scraping the ground. A mighty roar rang out through the Sacred Ring. The polar bears leaped into the night. And the gadfeathers began to sing their song blending with that of the wolves.

“My king,” a sweet familiar voice said. It was Pelli.

“Just your mate, my dear. That is all I need be in your eyes.” Soren saw his own reflection in the dark mirrors of Pelli’s eyes. His white face soot-streaked. A nick out of his tarnished beak. “A grimy old mate at that,” he added.

“Oh, no, as fresh and gleaming as a long night in the time of the White Rain, Soren.”